Fragrant Winds, Southern Seas
by Killy the Calamity
Summary: 'They say, if you sail far to the south and the east, you will find a world isolated from the rest glittering in the sun.' - Development on an original part of the worlds I've been playing with, using a list of 100 writing prompts. No set game-world, no set schedule. Limited use of canons for the time being, so expect a lot of OCs. Rating may go up later.
1. 001 Dance

The day starts off as usual, its routine monotonous.

 _Wake up.  
Wash up.  
Dress up.  
Shove a small pre-made breakfast down her throat.  
Follow Ildra to the audience hall to prepare for addresses of state.  
_

Markesh is standing to one side of the throne, awaiting his aunt and the Empress. Cue the nervous side-glance the boy pays to the body in the glass displayed above and behind the dais. The apprehensive twist of his features as he mutters that he is almost certain the Corpse-eater has shifted, maybe grown a small bit in its tight enchanted confines.

It's the same, day after day, week after week. Time starts running together and at this point, in the middle of the day and in the middle of another dispute between farmers over their land, she is almost positive that she is replaying the same day over and over and over again, stuck in a loop that she is trying to convince herself won't cease repetition until she does something different. Something drastic enough in the carefully-laid schedule some deity or another has set in place to make her believe it isn't all just a recurring dream.

All of the subtle attempts to change something have failed, though succeeded in making it look like the otherwise-graceful and splendorous vision of the Isles' ruler is more insane than usual. All it really accomplishes is a stern admonishing cough from Ildra before once again, she falls into the monotony of presiding over all affairs in public and politic in her empire.

Right as defeat is beginning to take her at midday to change the flow of time, a lesser Oracle hears her futile pleas and takes pity. The last session drains her, leaving her to flop with all the floating grace of a beached whale to the cushioned marble throne on the dais. A moment to breathe before the next address, though this one will end differently.

Ildra has swept after the last party, Markesh has fallen asleep standing up; she's more than sure of that, with the glazed look in his eye and his head lolling slightly forward. Sad that her apprentice Regent can nap so perfectly and she would fall flat on her face. She envies the boy, really…

"Psst."

The noise catches her attention, faint chime as her head snaps around to locate it, ear tips flicking about to seek the source.

"Psst. Over here."

Abyssal gaze turns to zero in on a young man, hidden just inside the shadowed hooded doorway to the private apartments behind the audience hall. That wasn't there the last run of this day, and she immediately sees it as a way out of this, even if for a few hours.

She recognizes him; Ansel, the Admiral's son. He beckons with a hand to come join him. It takes little more than a second to make the decision to follow, one more to check on both her charges. Ildra is still not present, Markesh is doing anything but paying attention.

A shuffling jingle sounds as she rises from her seat and strides as though floating across the white stone floor to him. He is beaming, smile across his face pleasant and cordial. He disappears through the door, she is close behind. Already, he is aiming for the servant's entrance, going down the sloping hallways instead of up into the lofty private quarters above. She follows his brisk pace with expertly-handled swirl of heavy brocades ruffling out a cadence to move by, keeping in perfect sync with the excited young Sidhe captain. She knows that he will explain himself once they are out of the main palace complex, more by experience with Ildra than any hive-connection she may have to the boy leading her away.

Through the door onto the grounds, through lavish gardens and out the side gate to the slightly less-tamed outer walls. His is a contagious energy, looking over his shoulder from time to time to make sure she is in step with him. Finally, when they are both a sufficient way from the Imperial palace and all its woes and tribulations, he turns to face her.

"Father sent me to get you. One of the university's dance troupes is doing public demonstrations. He thought you could use a break, since no one has seen you outside the palace for a few weeks now."

She looks mildly concerned. "Has it really only been a few weeks?" she inquires, then adds as he nods his head, "And here I assumed it was the same day over and over."

He chuckles, nodding his head toward the stables. "If you think that, then it's a good thing I got you out. I don't think they'll miss you for a few hours."

He's off again, she's close behind, keeping her eyes and ears on the palace. Vigilance stays until a small mare is chosen for her and she and Ansel are riding on the bridge to the next Isle over. People in transit move out of their way, some openly wondering why their Empress in full court regalia is in their midst. She can hear the muttered confusions, but it doesn't phase her much. This is the respite she asked for. The daily schedules can wait.

It's not long before the music begins to waft in the air, above the ambient rambling of the crowded market square on the third largest island. It isn't hard to pinpoint where they are, horses turned to aim for it. Sure enough, in the middle of the square is a substantial-sized dance troupe with accompanying musicians. They swirl, they twist as one entity, displaying bejeweled gowns and robes between masculine and feminine. Beautiful and ethereal, unearthly in their finely-tuned movements, from the synchronized steps to the way they all sigh in emphasis to the story they tell through motion.

She dismounts behind Ansel, following him to the tall and striking Sidhe that is his father, Eyrol. The old Admiral is watching the rehearsal, though turns to look at the pair of newcomers, his face breaking into an amiable smirk. "I see you finally managed away from your duties, High Empress."

He keeps his volume low. Not everyone is aware their shimmering Imperial is among them, and the sudden knowledge of such can cause disarray.

She smiles back at him, with the same friendliness he has shown. "It took some doing, but I did find time to join the festivities." A sweep of her gaze falls across the crowd and the performers. "Which university was this? I did not have time to catch who it is."

A glance from father to son, the latter shrugs, before the answer is given. "I believe this is Southern Wind."

She gives a stern nod at that. "To be perfectly honest, I should have known from their style."

Eyrol chuckles at that. "Yeah, but I won't blame you for it; you've been cooped up in that palace for a fair while now."

She scoffs playfully at that, though the smirk plastered across angled face tells of her own amusement. She has missed the bantering, made to uphold the grace, patience, and elegance most befitting to a presiding Imperial. "Well, if it was not for a certain captain, I might still be deliberating over why there are no set territories for fisheries."

The joke is taken in stride with the elder Admiral and both he and his Empress look mock-sternly at the younger. Ansel looks only mildly perturbed at the double-turning on him by the other two, shrugging again and crossing his arms. The slow of the music to a close draws attention back to the entertainers, calls into the crowd for those who would wish to dance with them.

She takes a moment to reflect on how she feels at ease and at peace to know her people are so much alive and flowing that she barely registers when exactly the eyes have turned to her. The way the faces alight to see the unintentionally-reclusive Empress down and mingling with them once more.

The lead of the troupe is beaming most of all, a surreal light emitting from her as she reaches a hand forward. "Perhaps you can teach _us_ something new, Imperial Grace." she chimes, a melody in that voice akin to that of the Empress' own.

She recognizes it, though the manipulation will not work on her. She is far too advanced in the vocal magicks to be swayed by it. However, she goes willingly forward to the sounds of cheering and light applause from the crowd. She has not noticed that Ansel stood behind her, pointing her out to the recruiters in retribution to the joke played earlier.

Standing with the troupe, the applause in the crowd dies down. Their recruiter moves to stand next to her, the rest of the troupe scattered at predetermined positions about on the upraised platform what acts as an outdoor stage. A quick glance is given the considerably taller Sidhe woman, a look of smug satisfaction on the recruiter's young face.

"Can you even move in that?" She indicates the ensemble. The layered heavy skirts and metal- and jewel-encrusted hems seem unwieldy to those who would not be used to it, and there is a flicker of laughter across the spectators below.

The look is returned, metal-gloved hands reaching down to grasp the hand-embroidered fabric at just above her knees and pull them up enough she has free range of movement. "Better than you can."

Mock scoffing insult and louder laughter greet the return poke. Part of the show; audience participation and appeal are always the showman's weapons.

Silence as she steps forward, the troupe moving with her. A step back, a step to one side to the next. Pause.

"…Is that all?" The hesitation sells it, alongside the incredulous look on her fellow partner's face.

Sly little smirk is offered from the Empress at that. She was never very nervous about performing in front of a crowd; that was earned and trained from a young age. A socially-anxious Imperial makes it difficult to build a successful empire, after all.

"No. That was me warming up."

More laughter, speckled with a small bit of applause. A few of the troupe have started laughing, too. It's almost rehearsed, the way it's played so far. Charisma is a wonderful and sometimes devastating tool. After a moment to let the crowd calm itself, she finally begins.

A click of weaving footwork, a swirl of the gown's skirts and veils. She may as well have been trained by the university themselves, utilizing all elements to her down to the chime of jewelry and shining hems. Those keep the time. Still, it is impressive to watch as she makes two rotations of the particular dance used by the court, making use of the sheer weight of her wardrobe to add a more pronounced flair. After the second rotation, the troupe finally joins in.

 _Step, step forward one way  
Bend down and twirl  
Step, step forward the second  
Bend back and twirl  
Sweep across the front edge of the stage, follow the arc  
Twirl, moving back toward where you start_

She is caught in the moment, with the singing metal adornments, the glitter of the clothing worn by her and the troupe. The energy is contagious, a few folk in the crowd breaking away to try and keep up; they get better with practice as it goes along.

There are a total of three cycles of the customary dance, the musicians having found the beat and beginning to add a hint of music behind. Magic practically crackles through the air, though eventually, she catches sight again of Eyrol standing on the side of the stage, vying desperately for her attention with a hurriedly beckoning hand.

Everything comes to a jingling halt, a small bow given to the appreciative crowd and to the dance troupe, who bow back with their own thanks. They go on to call on others in the audience while she runs to the old Admiral.

"Freedom or slavery?" he asks before she even has a chance to slow to a stop.

She gives him an odd expression as he helps her down. "Freedom, of course."

He keeps a firm grip on her hands as he begins to pull her away from the stage. "Good. Because I heard Ildra out and about. Obviously, she's looking for you."

They begin running as she replies and drops the high-speech; "Oh, don't let her drag me back just yet."

He lets her go to give her better freedom of movement as she follows him, old friends more than a commander and her soldier. All that is left of them is a blurred shade of shimmering white and faded dark blue and a shared laugh, like a pair of children knowing what they've done will get them in trouble.

* * *

 **A/N** : Writing these as an attempt to keep my muses in full steam ahead. No rhyme or reason to scheduling, just writing these prompts as I will and want to develop some on both Fae and her empire. Worldbuilding makes the world go 'round, character-building much the same. I kinda miss writing in second-person, so I'm just gonna do that here.

Starting off with some of her relationship with her Admiral, Eyrol, and his immediate family.


	2. 002 Treat

The smells wafting from the kitchens infiltrate much of the lower halls. Markesh tilts his nose upward as he passes on his way through toward the audience hall, slowing down to a few scraping steps. He can hear his aunt admonishing him in the back of his mind for dragging his feet to stop:

 _How undignified! Pick up your feet, Markesh! It simply will not_ **do** _to have the Imperial Regent fall flat on his face by catching his toe on the tile!_

His ear tips flatten to his head, almost as though he can hear Auntie Ildra over his shoulder, a pointer finger wiggling just within it as if to clear it out. His mind travels back to the smells, strong and permeating around him. He begins to contemplate how long it's been since breakfast.

Not for him, oh no. Even if the scent of braised lamb with a tiny hint of spearmint causes a bit of rumbling in his own stomach, rising momentarily above the rest of the nasal concoction. He knows _that,_ in particular, is for dinner.

A sly look around to make sure he isn't being watched at all before slipping with footwork Ildra would be proud of along the shadowed sides of the corridor to the kitchen. He has done this many a time, slinking like a twinkling phantom in the uniform of those of the High Court, dyed stark black and accented in silver and platinum. Every so often, the light catches buttons or seams with a flash, and he stops. Another look about, no one watching still.

A few more steps, ducking into a niche at the side, out of sight from an exiting pair of chef's apprentices. They're new; he's never seen them before, and they don't try to sneakily check in the corners for him. Markesh isn't known on pleasant terms with the head chef for a reason.

With them out of sight and no other bodies leaving or entering, he makes a dash for it, skidding behind a barrel of honey. The kitchens are busy, as to be expected at this hour of the day, with assistants and cooks running hither and thither and willy-nilly all over in an attempt to make sure dinner is complete before the allotted time.

He can see the racks of lamb being shifted about; prepared from a marinade, put in the ovens, removed and braised then put back in. The garnish sauce is mint-based. The Empress' favorite, really. She must be having a rough day of it for Ildra to have ordered the dish.

But that is why Markesh is here.

His target is not the lamb or anything that is a larger course or requires constant attention. That would put him right in sight and in harm's way. The head chef is no novice with that long-handled ladle he's sporting and he doesn't care what part of the court you're from. He would chase Her Imperial Grace from the kitchens brandishing it, if she ever made it this far.

His target is off to the side, cooling on large long trays. _Honey rolls_. A sort of after-dinner pallet-tempter, to ready the stomach for dessert. Not too sweet, but just sweet enough. And just perfect for that afternoon snack.

He's up on his feet, crouched and ready. A quick glance toward the doors into the hallway are taken, another sweep around the room to remember where everyone is, before he leaps off to one side and begins the sneaking trek toward the rolls.

Over and under, around and through. The first bit of cover is a pile of flour sacks, a brief recount of everyone's positions before he's off again. He's done this since he was a young pup. He knows the tricks to make it to one end of the gauntlet and back again.

Sneaking passed the sugar barrels, he snatches a clean flour cloth from a bench to use as transport. With a final bit of ducking and weaving, he makes it to the prize, paying mind to everyone's attentions before snatching two of the sweet gooey pastries. One for the Imperial, one for himself. For a job well done, of course.

He slips up trying to leave. He fails to survey his surroundings proper on his way back to the flour and almost runs into a young woman sent to pull a specific wood from the shelves behind them. The first moment is tense, filled with shock on her part when she realizes there's someone there who wasn't there before.

This is before she draws herself up indignantly and yells, "It's _you_!"

She doesn't know his name, but she knows his reputation and in the moments following, the world is oppressively silent. All eyes are suddenly on the kitchen-thief. Once again, the shock is short-lived before warcries are uttered and, with a single high-pitched yelp, Markesh is bouncing around various kitchen essentials, using the honey barrels that first concealed him as a vaulting point over the top of the swiftly growing angry crowd of cooks and assistants.

The hivemind is a scary thing, even moreso when it's turned on one of its own.

He hurtles out the door, clutching tightly to his precious bundle, and bolts the way opposite from whence he came. Up the winding staircase at the end of the hall, just out of sight when he hears what can only be the entire kitchen staff thunder its way out after him. Thinking quickly, he ducks down into the curving alcove of another dark wall niche, the arch lip hopefully concealing him from the angry mob out for his blood. The awesome rumble that passes by him frightens him, to be fair, felt even through the solid stone of the floor. But it is not enough to scare him into never doing it again in the future.

The noise fades, he knows he has a short window to get out before they realize he's given them the slip. His head pokes out a bit, catching no sign of anyone nearby. Like the shadow he believes he is, he's out again and headed back the way he came. He thinks for a moment that he's home-free, when he hears voices coming from the hall further down.

 _Those two assistants…_

He's forgotten completely about them in his haste, looking right, then left. A side-hall greets him and he is swiftly down the corridor and through the door at the end of it. The room beyond is monstrous as it is tall; he recognizes it as the late Emperor Dael's private study, changed into a central library as soon as his daughter took back the throne. Three levels up, it stretches, with an open center and a staggered set of hand-cut crystal chandeliers at each level, an attempt to provide even lighting.

A fragrant warm breeze blows through a window somewhere above, the flames flickering just slightly with the eerie creak of the chain tethers. The room is silent as the grave, and he knows he can get his parcel where it needs to go from here. Before he can take more than a step, he hears something else, ear tips flicking to try and narrow the source. Shuffling and muted steps on carpet, echoing with the fine acoustics in the room to mask where they originate.

"Your aunt will not be pleased to know you have been tormenting the kitchen staff again." He snaps his head up to spy that telltale wafting mane of ink and abyssal stare from the top level. She clicks her tongue lightly at him, playfully. "And with a foreign dignitary for dinner, too. This could cause a most unnecessary scene."

He assumes a hurt face, puppy-eyes and all, as he responds. "Ah, but I was only thinking of _you_ , High Empress, and that measly breakfast you had this morning…"

She makes a noise in her throat. She is keenly aware of her own needs. "…If those are honey rolls, I will pardon all acts against the kitchen. I have that power, you know."

He tries not to smile too broadly, making for the stairs up. "Ah, you are too kind."

* * *

 **A/N** : Something to tide me over and keep the muses running still. Anyway, have Markesh being sneaky.


End file.
